I sat down slowly, my legs weak.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.
I glanced at an open album. My daughter at four years old, smiling with missing front teeth.
Judith followed my gaze.
“She was your daughter,” she said softly.
I didn’t answer.
Then she added, “That’s why you helped me yesterday.”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
She sat across from me, still holding the doll.
“When I saw these,” she said, “I realized you didn’t just help me out of pity.”
“I did feel sorry for you.”
“I know. But it wasn’t only that.”
She looked around the room.
“People who are just being kind don’t keep their pain packed away like this.”
That struck deeper than I expected.
